


The Dreaming Lion

by wheezykins



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: But sometimes he drinks, Dream Sequences, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, POV Third Person, Single POV, Sometimes he doesn't get the girl, WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE ARE NO RELATIONSHIPS?, time jumps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3540635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheezykins/pseuds/wheezykins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The commander of the Inquisition has seen many rise and fall. They haunt his sleep, they sit in the corner of his vision and breathe down his neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boys and Their Angst

The lake shore seemed an eternity away. His arms, not much larger around than a young sapling, worked furiously against the tide that pulled the yielding weight of his boat. Blistered hands struggled with the oars, a spasm raced down his spine. At any point he could have set anchor and stopped, but this evening he was determined to row further than the day before. Eyes searched the horizon, spotting the small rock that would only enough for him to lash a rope to so that the ancient row boat might not float away even further. One stroke, his back spasmed again. Two strokes, he bit his lip, gritting through the pain. Three strokes, the tangy bite of copper passed his tongue. Four strokes, sweat rolled into his eyes, stinging them relentlessly and blurring his vision. Five, there were tears now, the salt mingled with the taste of blood and burned on his lip. Six, a prayer, memorized, begging for the willpower to carry this burden. Seven, silence. A hollow thunk signaled his arrival. 

Years of running away from his siblings had uncovered a small reprise in the form of a small rowboat and a dozen or so anchor points within view of his family home. Slowly the map etched itself into his mind’s eye. It was a second nature now, ritualistic.

His sister mocked him, saying that he was a baby for running away. Cutting remarks that he held onto only to revisit in the midnight hour when no one might hear the stifled whimpers. On the lake, however, he felt those torments flit away, weightless and unable to find footing in his mind. Here, just breathing was enough, the calm that would wash over him as warmth of the setting sun flickered across his brow, the gentleness of the waters lapping the rock and boat and the quiet of the world of being rest. It was enough. 

A child's fingers traced made up runes through the yielding skin of the lake's surface. Eyes squinting as their shape was lost in the distance. His gaze followed the impressionistic strokes of deep blues and vivid violets undulate as they met the gravelly shores. Cupped hands brought a cooling draught to his chapped lips. A smile pulled cherubic features as he dunked his head into the cold waters. The sudden movements caused the boat to pitch, sending his small frame caterwauling into the lake. The moment wandered off into forever before his flailing limbs in the darkness brought him sputtering to the surface. And he laughed, boisterous and unburdened, the sudden sounds sending a flock of geese into flight. He floated in the water on his back for some time, euphoric, eyes closed with only the hush of water as a companion. 

Eventually he found that the waters had pulled him a short distance from his boat. Kicking his way back he managed to struggle back into the wooden craft. Wind cut through the damp clothes with ease and a shiver worked its way from head to toe. Sharp eyes were cast back to the shoreline resting upon the needful fingers of tall grasses yearning skyward alongside white horsenettle that denied the wind's force. 

His sister called his name followed by the threat of chastisement from mother were he to dally much longer. Then there was the blinding light. 

Sleep laden eyes revealed bright, intelligent gold; the dream's fog lifting with the realization of a different world, years away from the young self he had just seen. A pleasant dream, so unlike the others that plagued his psyche. A rough hand raked its way through blond curls, tearing apart tangles that had formed in the night. How many nights would he be haunted by the visions of his failures, perceived or otherwise? 

Flashes of her bright eyes and sharp ears, her beauty and might filled his senses. Her might as she contorted raw power into something that frightened but also excited him. As much as it was his duty to protect the world outside the tower walls, he believed the mages within needed just as much protection. Telling her as much had elicited a singsong giggle as she dubbed him hero. Then, so quickly, it was all lost, she was lost, to the ambitions of a man and the fears he represented, just as the world was also losing its mind. He had cowered and averted his eyes, what a hero he had been. Then, tears later, the streets were flooded with the blood of his charges and his brothers in arms. The violent uprising he didn't foresee and couldn't contain. One man had pushed the world over a precipice and into chaos, again. Shaken, was his resolve and his foundation, even more so than the city itself. The world had shuddered and he had failed. 

A voice whispered urgently to rise, there was no time to waste, too many things pressing down upon him. Its weight seemed too tremendous to bear sometimes, but if he lay here, as sure as the sun would set, he would lose himself. So, he swung his legs over the side of his bed, the drafty room chilled to the bone, but numbed the ache of his muscles. Methodically, he dressed himself, the routine allowed a moment to empty his mind. A desk overflowing with missives and paperwork greeted him as it did every day. Running his finger over the stack of letters asking for support, begging for help, pleading for a hero, he sighed. He sat just as a gauntleted fist knocked upon his door.

“Commander, your presence is needed in the main hall," the recruit recited, voice shaky. Beneath the ill fitted armor an array of freckles dotted the young woman’s face. The commander searched for a name amongst the influx of new recruits. Libson, barely into her sixteenth year. The recruit skittered before the intent gaze of her superior, but saluted smartly.

Cullen caught himself, and tried to soften the scowl that too easily spread across his face. “I will be along shortly. Thank you, Recruit Libson.”

“S-sir!” The door closed sharply, but not before he glimpsed the proud smile on the girl’s face.

Hers was just one more life that the Commander had been charged with, the thought weighed heavy. Last count there had been some hundred or so new recruits within the last week. Doubt sat firmly in the back of his mind, a hoarse whisper trying to disquiet him. Regardless of his own demons, he would lead, as was required. As was necessary to ensure their survival. It would have to be enough.

He chose a slightly longer route along the ramparts, observing his troops training, merchants plying their wares and many others still, just trying to catch their breath as the demons chased them from their homes. A loud crackling erupted behind him, it rattled his bones even from such a distance. The terrifying mass dubbed The Breach loomed before him, the unspoken threat echoing from a core that could swallow the world whole if they failed. “Maker,” he murmured to himself. 

Bile rested at the back of his throat, but he forced it down as he entered the main hall. The crowd was thick here, but they parted as recognition spread through their ranks. He swept up his cloak, wondering why he insisted on wearing such a heavy fabric. “Inquisitor,” Cullen greeted the tall man before him, nodding acquiescence. 

“Commander Cullen,” the man returned the nod. Gafford Trevelyan was a man of intimidating stature. His dark features seemed even more clouded this day as he sat upon his throne before a shackled prisoner. “I believe you might have a vested interest in our newest visitor.” The Inquisitor motioned to the kneeling figure, who was bent double, face obscured.

The Commander could only assume that it was the Red Templar that had been captured the day before. It made his blood boil, here was a man who had sworn to the same duties he had, but allowed himself to be corrupted by power and greed. This was a man who brokered no sympathy from him. “Indeed I do. Before you stands Peter Janslic, a man formerly of the Templar order, who, renounced his duties and has joined in league with Samson. He is accused of banditry and ambushing an Inquisition caravan. Of his group, only he was taken alive.” He did not need to read off the charges for he had studied them extensively before finally succumbing to the allure of sleep. He paced before walking up the dais to look down at the captive.

“Is that all?” the imposing warrior cocked an eyebrow.

“No.” Cullen faced the accused. "It is not." He rested his hand on sword at his side, golden eyes never leaving the bloodshot blue of the other. "Janslic also stands accused of the murder of five civilians and two officers. Both of whom were under my direct charge." He allowed the implication to hang. 

The scowl upon Gafford’s face spoke volumes, but he spoke quietly. “What do you have to say in your defense, Janslic?”

The man spat, nearly hissing in reply, “I’ll not beg for my life, Marcher, not before a false prophet. Kill me and get it over with! Maker damn you!” The veins in his neck stood out, glowing a bright red as he strained against his shackles. Guards shoved him down, their pikes crossing at his neck. Janslic glowered, but remained quiet.

"I see. And what say you, Commander?" Inquired Gafford. 

Cullen stood straight, hands behind his back. "He deserves nothing short of death. It should rest in my hands, if you'd allow," he proclaimed the practiced line.

Whispers and gasps from the crowd grew in intensity, though he could not make out anything definite. Then, shouts demanding death echoed through the chamber, one after the other until it was in a cacophonous upheaval. His gaze shot between the prisoner on the Inquisitor as the dark skinned man mulled over the decision now as Cullen had the night before. The Inquisitor sat, elbows on knees and hands clasped as he mulled. Each second dragged on into the next as silence fell over the procession, however, the anticipation felt more strangulating than the noise ever did. The quiet lingered, tension building until all in attendance held their breath. 

Gafford stood, hand brushing a ragged beard. "By order of the Inquisition, Peter Janslic, I condemn you to death for your foul acts against our order and the people of Thedas." Cheers erupted from the crowd. "I leave this in your hands, Commander Cullen. The man will pay with blood, as you see fit," Gafford whispered as he stepped down.

Cullen could only maintain a bow as the Inquisitor left the dais and retired to his chambers for the time being. He had not thought of how he would execute the man, only that he would. Taking a life was not new, but execution placed a foul taste in his mouth. The hall emptied as Janslic was escorted back to the cells to rot until someone saw fit to attend to the bastard. The commander stood, still bent over, intrinsically aware of the pain pulsating in his back and in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GON' DIE NOW. G'BYE WORLD.


	2. Danglely Bits and Lady Tits

Upon returning to his chambers, he attended the ever growing mountain of missives. Hours were spent drafting responses and sending out new orders, trying to assume the voice of the Commander of the Inquisition. He was not gifted with a talent for speech, however, and found himself creating an even larger mountain of crumpled papers filled with gibberish and ink stains. 

In a corner, tucked away, beneath a shawl of demanding letters, there was a bottle of wine, sent to him by the Arl of Redcliffe. A fine thank you for returning the the town to his care. Struggling with the cork for a moment released the aroma of cranberries and cedar. Strong and fiery, he poured a generous cup. The rich, red wine swirled to the brim, its scent filling his nostrils as he took in a deep breath before taking a sip. It felt viscous as the liquid passed into his stomach. Quickly, he drank more and the sensation of warmth spread to his extremities, soon followed by a heavy pall that draped itself over him. 

The hallway was softly lit, flickering shadows were thrown by magically maintained sconces lining the walls and were soon lost around a curve in the wall. The Templar plate shone bright from a fresh polishing, the smell stuck in the bridge of his nose, metallic and caustic. Familiarity filled his senses and the atmosphere of the mage’s tower rushed into being. One practiced step in front of the other, a patrol route that was ingrained into his muscle memory. Though his eyes and ears remained alert, his mind was free to wander. Not that anything significant was mulled over, just a blankness, a companionable silence. Muted voices echoed along the old stone, their meanings warped before reaching his ears. Cloistered mages tended to speak softly in most regards, but even more so when a Templar was within earshot. It was always so chilly in these passageways, even though the magelight gave passable illumination, they offered no heat. He passed a hand through the flame, flinching though it did nothing but make him uneasy.

With a deep inhale, he took in the scent of dusty tomes, the library. It was a favorite room of his, the idea that the numerous shelves stacked high with writings that documented nearly all known history was just so preposterous. A good many apprentices shuffled in between the massive bookcases, arms laden with scrolls and books. Nearly every table appeared to be full, bodies hunched over the pages, musing upon their meaning and application. A permeating sense of dread set his jaw tight. It seemed to be a safe assumption that quite a few Harrowings would soon be taking place.

Magic had never run in his family and so his interest in magic started and ended with the Templar Order. He knew that in order to maintain the precious balance of power he took the essence of a magical stone into his body, Lyrium. Andraste had said that magic was meant to serve man, not rule him and so he kept the mages in his care safe from possession. No man could control the other’s ambition, however, thus Templars needed to be wary. Suspicion was high almost at all times and the friction that caused could be felt reverberating in every stone. 

He paced down a section that contained works regarding the Andrastian faith. Shelves of historical recountings. Dramatic prose detailing the author’s beliefs. Incendiary comments demeaning Andraste and the Maker while praising the Qun. He had read many of these texts while he trained to join the Order, and on nights where there was nothing but the quiet waters of Lake Calenhad to bear witness, he sat and found new meaning in these old words. Maybe, also, to catch glimpses of those vivid eyes that seemed to see too much.

Like a summoned sprite, there she was, the dim lights barely touched her, but he knew, her silhouette was weaved into his mind. His step faltered, his breath hitched. Then, as his courage nearly followed suit, her eyes met his and he felt his body burn. He choked on his rehearsed words and he stood horribly still. A smile tugged her full lips before muffled laughter broke her stoic visage. She mouthed the word: hero. He felt a blush bloom across his cheeks and quickly turned to cough into his fist, a poor attempt at hiding. She had bewitched him, however, and he needed to gaze upon her again. To trace the soft curve of her jaw, to witness the raven tresses flow over a slender shoulder, kept in place by a poorly executed braid, to feel the excitement gather in his gut. Deliberately, he spun on the heel of his boot to face the veiled corner, but he was greeted, instead, by a sharp gust and an empty shadow.

Panic shot through his chest, constraining his lungs, he felt light, his center thrown askew. Why did he panic, though? She was prone to quick disappearances. The knowledge didn't placate him. He all but ran to the corner, throwing aside scrolls to reveal nothing. Dilated eyes flitted over the dusty corner, adrenaline making his movements jerky. Everything felt cold even while sweat beaded at his brow. He made to whisper her name, but his voice would not come. Again, but the force of his words bubbled in his throat and died on his lips. Louder, he demanded, straining the vocal cords, sheer will ushering forth maddening silence.

He bolted down an aisle of bookshelves. They loomed up into suffocating midnight like giants that would stomp down and crush his tiny form. Lungs heaved raggedly for air, failing to fuel legs that barely kept up with this wild momentum. All he heard was the blood drumming through his veins, his periphery narrowed until he could barely guess as to obstacles which might lay ahead. For each bound he took, he may as well have stood still, all the blighted good it did as the aisle stretched before him, an unending torture. 

_Finally!_ As he rounded a corner, chest heaving beneath the cuirass, a trio of apprentices stood huddled before him. Heavy hoods hid their faces and their hushed whispers conveyed no meaning. His eyes lingered for a moment as he tried to focus on their features, but it was hazy.

“Templar?” the voice was husky and slurred, as if the words were unfamiliar. 

“You will rule us no longer,” hissed the other.

Cackling came from the third. “We will not fall. You will not win.”

As one, they turned and faced him. No, face was wrong, there were no human faces beneath the dark fabric, for they had no definite nose, no light in their eyes, just sallow skin pulled unnaturally tight over bone. A jagged line sliced its way across their waxy features, revealing murderous grimaces that swept from ear to ear. Razor teeth jutted inside the cavernous maw, promising searing agony. Talons, the color of bruises, tore through their robes and clashed with his breastplate, sending sparks skittering across its surface. Bright, sharp pain laced across his face and he tasted the tang of blood.

The abominations, for that is what he recognized them to truly be, let forth a cry, pink spittle frothed at the corners of their terrifying mouths, calling brethren to arms. Cullen’s hand went instinctively to his side, the heft of his pommel a welcoming familiarity. Unleashing his own cry, he rushed at his foes, desperate determination searingly hot in his sword arm. Swings that should have easily cleaved through the demon's withered hide, instead uselessly clattered to the ground. His own armor may as well have been wet paper for all the protection it afforded him. At his feet lay his shield, dented and rendered into mere shards of steel. Numerous gashes ran across his torso and arms and an unlucky blow made him favor his left leg. His enemies surrounded him and he could see more bloodshot eyes crashing down the hall. A bitter chill laced his body, ebbing so acutely that he lost all sensation before it all came crashing back. 

Warm breath washed across his neck as lithe arms wrapped about his chest, seemingly ending the pain. “You do not want to die today. You could stay with her forever,” whispered a feminine voice. It was velvet across his frayed nerves. 

Ebbing. Falling away. His eyelids felt heavy. “W-Who?” His voice sounded far away, garbled.

“My love,” the voice cooed. "My hero.” The tone shifted. Familiar. A soft body pressed up against his back. Hands pulling him close.

Heavy, he felt so heavy. His sword clattered to the floor, soundless. “I-I couldn’t find you. Maker, I couldn’t find you and I was so sca-” Why was his voice so panicked?

The woman, who only came up to his chest, stepped around to face him. Bright, green eyes. Expressive, full lips. A mischievous twinkle. Black hair that glimmered and flowed over thin shoulders. _Her._

That sly smile touched her face. “And where would I go that my hero could not find me if he so wanted?” Slender fingers grazed his cheek, the warmth spread throughout his body. Her smile widened, surely spotting the redness he felt spreading across his face to the tips of his ears.

He smirked. It was all so simple to be at ease here. “No where. I would search the breadth and width of the world.” One hand gently encapsulated the one she had splayed on his chest, the other reached out timidly, afraid that he was going mad. Her hair was silk, as he always thought. Her skin, milky and supple. She took but one step into his chest and the smell of primrose filled his senses.

“You would abandon your duties?” She tilted her head upward, resting her chin on his chest. Behind long lashes, her eyes met his. Pressing closer, her hips slid against him.

She may as well have physically gutted him. My duties? Shaking his head did little to lift the fog that lingered there. Her breath was hot against his lips, one hand slowly trailed its way down his chest, his stomach, catching his navel. Agonizingly slow fingers at the top of his trousers worked loose the knot, pushing down the yielding fabric. It felt good to be free of its restraint. So dizzy. She stepped back, fingers fluidly dismantling her robe. That too fell to the floor. Hesitation. But he felt his small clothes become restraining.

Open arms. “Come away with me. Leave the blasted Templars and Circle and run with me,” she pleaded. 

“I-I…” _I want to._

“We could be happy,” she added, offering her hand, palm up. “No more magic.”

This wasn’t right. Everything was completely wrong. She would never act like this, always too preoccupied to even consider him as anything more than a Templar. Maybe a nice Templar, but one all the same. One step back. Certainly, there were mages that would throw themselves at Templars, either for safety or in some sort of twisted hero worship. Possibly to save themselves from The Rite of Tranquility. Two steps back. She was always too confident, too focused to allow him to cloud her mind. Many realized that she could be the best of them all, but smart enough to know restraint. She was not a woman who would throw herself upon him all fluttering eyelashes and heaving bosom. Three steps. She was not this woman standing before him.

Indignant eyes burned into him. “Would you leave me, then?” Her words were sharp, tinged with hate. It made him flinch. “You would abandon me? AGAIN?” She screamed and the air shifted before his eyes, the feminine form exploded into something twisted. Violet flame surrounded wicked looking horns that sat above eyes which only burned with malice, not lust. Blackened nails sprouted from boney fingers. Though still decidedly female, this demon was the farthest thing from her, a desire demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you actually read this far, then I love you. As evidence of that love, there will be more conversations next chapter, promise. Hopefully some witty banter happens as well.


	3. The Commander Is No Longer Allowed Wine

The bed was soaked through with sweat. Outside, the howling wind was a high pitched keen. Cullen pulled the sheets over his head, cocooning himself with hiccupped breaths and a burdened heart. 

Early morning voices rose from the courtyard and the sounds ringing steel and marching boots joined together creating a chorus that beckoned and scared him away. Turning away from the noise did little, it was just enough though. Closing his eyes against it his fingers traced the small scar above his lip, the dream was right about many things, but wrong on that account. It wasn’t until many years later that he would receive the telling mark.

“My dear Cullen,” a voice floated up to his bed. “I do believe that you have slept in. The commander of the Inquisition forces cannot be seen as lazy.” Lady Vivienne chastised, the clip of her heel sounded as though she were pacing. A pause. “I do hope that you enjoyed the Arl’s gift well enough, this bottle is devastatingly empty. “ Mother hen’s dry tone elicited a grumble.

“I am up, Lady Vivienne. _Thank you_ ,” he snipped, tossing the covers aside.

“I would work on that tone as well, dear. It’s quite dreadful,” the First Enchanter called up pleasantly. Shuffling papers could be heard as well as tsking. “I’ll be sending a servant by to clean this mess.”

Stifling the sigh was harder than he thought. “Of course. Thank you, Vivienne.” 

“You should also reconsider my generous offer to bring in decorators, Comman-"

"Thank. You. I. Will. Think. About. It. Vivienne."

"My, my, I suppose I'll be on my way then."

The Maker blessed sound of the door clicking shut was a balm. As he pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes it sent fireworks sparking behind his eyelids. The pounding in the base of his skull felt set to explode as he lay there for just one second more. Sitting up proved a tough task, the motion set the world to spinning as well as his stomach. He gagged, back heaving as he fought to keep his dinner. 

He pulled the sheets about him and sprinted to the ramparts. Rushing out the door, the contents of his stomach arced through the air and onto the stone just before him. The squelching sound of last nights beef stew striking the walkway brought up more bile, but the stench is what sent his stomach reeling: sour milk and the sickly sweet of putrid fruit. Hand over mouth Cullen staggered to the edge of the rampart and heaved down the side of Skyhold. 

_Void take me._

Spasms wracked his body followed by teeth shattering shivers. The wind had not died and all the Commander wore was a thin sheet that was now speckled with his sick, more still, clung to his chest and chin. He continued gagging, but there was nothing left to expel. Bloodshot eyes glanced down the walkway and locked with familiar brown. Freckles.

“C-commander?!” The poor recruit sputtered and locked up, her eyes looking everywhere but at her superior. Fidgeting hands were unsure as to either salute him or cover her eyes. She did both.

Cullen didn’t react much better. He froze, recognition slowly dawning upon him. One second carried into the next as they sized each other up. Inside his chest, his heart alternated between seizing up or violently beating its way through his ribcage. Even the wind seemed to die down, watching with bated breath.

“Recruit Libson!” he shouted a little too loudly.

The girl audibly squeaked, both hands now firmly plastered to her face. “I-I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Oh Maker!” The recruit made the sharpest about face Cullen had ever seen and continued to apologize profusely as she ran off into the distance.

“Dammit.” This was not going to not make it into a report. With a great sigh he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the numerous knots that made it their permanent residence. Mentally, he noted that there would be a short, calm talk with the young woman later, where he could sufficiently explain why her commander had heen nearly bare-arsed and vomiting on the keep. Somehow. Andraste's Tits, this was a horrid day.

Dragging his feet along the rough stone forced his focus on each step while the world still slowly wheeled around him. He continued to curse under his breath as he made his way into his office, pulling the mostly clean sheet around him like a hermit.

"Oh...ah...um...Ser Cullen?" Came the timid voice.

"What in the Maker's Shiny Britches is _wrong_ with today?!" He snapped. Twirling upon the offending voice, sheets fluttering about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cullen seems like an ale kind of guy, anyway.


	4. Pissed Off Mages and Their Fucked Up Cages

That situation could have been handled better, admittedly. The poor servant girl Vivienne had sent had been in tears amongst her cleaning supplies before Cullen thought to escort her out of his room. Going on a tirade about not having any "privacies" and "how was he supposed to do his job if there were always people in his office?" was going to raise the ire of the Lady Enchanter. It could wait though, he felt like there was a crust covering every bit of him and the bath was a siren song.

After sending for a different serving girl to run a bath, he made sure that he was properly attired with cotton trousers and a linen tunic. Both lay airily against his skin, the thought of being bound tight made his stomach knot. Last night had been a seething wound, one that he had thought forgotten. So many years lay between today and Kinloch Hold that he thought maybe he could move beyond it, but this dream would shatter him. Each time the memories bubbled up he smashed them down again, giving himself the excuse that he was young, naive, but it was a lie. He had changed in Kirkwall, erased all the assumed weakness that had allowed him to fail in Ferelden, but it was the same. The outcome: tragic.

A sharp tap on the door broke his reverie. “Commander, I’m here to start your bath,” a voice called. Masculine, with round vowels and sharp corners. Before he was able to answer, the door opened on squeaky hinges. 

_How hadn't I heard Lady Vivienne enter, then?_

A circle mage, one the Inquisition had recruited from Redcliffe, strode confidently into his room. His greying red hair was swept neatly into a clasp at his nape, keeping clear pale blue eyes. A long and crooked nose pointed to the severe line of the man's thin lips. His heavily lined face alluded to a penchant for frowns.

“A circle enchanter reduced to fetching boy, absurd,” the older man harumphed to himself. “Could’ve taken those Venatori bastards, given the chance.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “And so we will, Ser Enchanter. With your help, assuredly.”

A quick nod and grunt as the mage's hands and lips were forming a spell. The copper tub drifted lazily away from the corner where Cullen had struggled for an hour to push it towards. The air sparkled, dazzlingly, as snow was swept from the mountain side to rain into the basin. From a pocket he removed a stone, a rune, etched with a warming spell and dropped it into the cool waters. Almost immediately steam drifted up towards the rafters.

The man faced him. “The name’s Oonrick. Grand Enchanter Fiona says you’re good folk, though that’s neither here nor there.” 

The mage’s words struck a chord. He had fought Inquisitor Gafford about which side to chose, it seemed like an easy decision. Mages could be corrupted and Templars were specifically meant to defend against such things. These were facts. However, the Inquisitor had felt otherwise, Leliana and Cassandra had felt otherwise, and Cullen had been afraid that his staunch opposition of recruiting the mages would hinder their efforts.

Cullen proffered his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Ser Oonrick.”

The Enchanter had a rough grasp, but respectable. “Indeed. You’ll be executing that Templar today, won’t you?”

The question caught him off guard. He hadn’t thought of the Templar at all. Cullen sputtered, “Well, I...Of course, but…ah...” 

A well practiced frown. “‘But’ what? It’s nothing personal, but the man is a murderer. He felt no empathy, nor should you.”

There was a long pause as he thought of a proper response, one that might make even Josephine proud. “That’s exactly why I should show empathy. The Inquisition cannot sink to that level.”

His words were lost on deaf ears all the same. “The world’s not so small that word don’t travel between the Circles, Commander. Janslic was always heartless, wore his hate openly.” His eyes burned, but his words were even.

“That may be true-”

“It is most definitely true. The Inquisitor also thinks as much.”

“Yes, he does,” the commander said a tad too curtly.

“We mages are less than pests to that man. No one actively seeks a rat to beat day in and day out. But us? We are an easy, negligible target for Templars.”

His brow furrowed and he took a step towards the other man. “Not all Templars would be so-”

Oonrick did not step down. “No. No, Commander, not all Templars are hungry for blood, but he is and will be.”

Sticky power washed over his senses, the Fade was shifting. “Back down, Enchanter.” A hand went to a hip barren of the usual sword.

A barked laugh, strained. “He kills men under your direct command and you would try to point your blade at me?”

Disdain could be read across every inch of the mage’s face and body. Explosive magic was bound tight, pulsing at the edges, just waiting to be set free. A threat that Cullen could not defend, his body drained of lyrium. In an instant, it was gone, pulling all air from his lungs. The Enchanter’s face lost its edge, though his eyes remained fiery. As he rolled his neck, his body relaxed.

“ _I_ am in full control of my actions, can you say the same?” Oonrick’s words dripped venom.

The sense of claustrophobia suffocated any reply Cullen may have had to give. "Execution isn't something so easy."

The other man snorted. "Ain't it, though? An axe is held to my neck each day I breathe, Commander, waiting for a reason. I'd rightfully say that it is so easy." From within his robe, the mage withdrew a wooden box and placed it by the basin before leaving Cullen in a stunned silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But, like, what's in the box?
> 
> I don't think I even know what I'm doing anymore.


	5. Rabid Dogs Are Put Down

The bath hadn't been the relief he thought it would be. Yes, the knots and snares in his back had relaxed, but he still felt something crawl under his skin. Cullen had dragged the soapy rag along his skin until it was red, until each stroke caused pain to course through his veins, yet no relief could be found. He dressed quickly, the armor feeling warm against his skin. Safety. The circle enchanter had been right, Peter Janslic needed to be dealt with, sooner rather than later.

Skyhold’s prison was in shambles, rocks had crumbled away, leaving an opening for the elements to wreak havoc upon the building’s interior. The thundering of water was an unshakable pressure on his ears. Bright sunlight reflected off the mountain sides, refracted as the wind swept the snow into undulating spirals, blinding even with a gauntleted hand over his eyes. Like a funnel, the gaping hole siphoned the bitter wind into Skyhold causing his cape to angrily fly about his legs, tripping him incessantly.

“Maker!” Stumble. “Andraste!” A hitched step. Eventually, he ran out of expletives to mutter and grabbed the offending garment, bunching it into his fist. Trudging on he found more creative word combinations to express his annoyance. A moment of brilliance came as he pulled the bunched cape up to his brow and shadowed his face, turning his shoulder to the wind. A sly smile touched his lips.

“Knight-Captain!” Came a sharp greeting.

Cullen directed his eyes towards the origin of the voice, squinting beyond the bright light. The figure ran up to him. A salute as details came into being: Templar Connolly. The older gentleman had followed him from Kirkwall, one of the first Cullen had recruited after joining the Inquisition. He had been quick to run to the streets to save mages and citizen alike back in the Free Marches. More recently, Connolly had been vocal in his denouncement of the Templar secession from the Chantry, even more so with the development of Samson.

An offered hand was met with a tough grip. “Messere Connolly, is everything okay?”

The man shook his head. “Please, none of those formalities.”

“Serah Connolly, then, but I am no longer a knight-captain, either.”

A gravelly chuckle, “Ah, well, I suppose old habits die hard. And things are as well as can be, considering that Janslic is still alive.” Connolly leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper, though that was hardly necessary. ”Resisting the urge to end his life,” a thumb indicating behind him, “May be the hardest test the Maker has ever set before me.”

Cullen placed a hand on the man’s shoulder as he brushed past. “You would have saved me a bit of hassle.”

He stood before Peter Janslic’s cell, his face as meticulously neutral as could be achieved. The prisoner’s back was turned to the iron bars as he sat on the floor crossed legged. Even from here, the reddish glow of his sickness was visible. 

Varric had warned of red lyrium’s “wrongness” back in Kirkwall and Cullen had seen the gruesome thing in action when the Knight-Commander lost her mind to it after confronting the rebelling mages. Back then, Hawke had also chosen to protect the mages, though it was not surprising, given her aptitude for magic and fondness for mages with a penchant for starting rebellion.

“How long will you stand there?” Janslic’s voice cracked, barely audible over the crashing water and howling winds. “Be a good little puppet and follow that heretic’s orders.”

“Why are you so impatient, Janslic?”

“You don’t intend to try and drag secrets out of me.” An accusation. The man shifted, turning his head ever so slightly so that Cullen could see the unsettling red veins pulsing against pale skin.

“I truly doubt that you are so important as to know anything, but I could leave you to a torturer, if you wanted to live,” sarcasm dripped from each word.

“Now, I didn’t know the great Commander Cullen was capable of any amount of levity,” he mocked, but the tensing muscles of his back gave away his vexation. He cocked his head, as if listening for something.

“There are a great many things you do not know, Janslic,” the threat was a low growl in the Commander’s throat.

The prisoner stood, back still turned, his arms pressed tightly to his sides, anger barely leashed. “I know that you and your false idealism will fail. I know that your men begged for their lives. I know those farmers cried before I ran them through. I know they suffered.” Janslic looked down at dessicated hands, a broken cackle building in his throat. 

Boiling rage was only thinly contained. His hands flexed involuntarily. All he heard was blood pounding through his veins. An ache stirred in the depths of his stomach and the hollow at the base of his skull, the unquenched thirst for lyrim. The calling, the thirst, this need. His lips felt parched. His body was lead. A gauntleted fist slammed into the stone wall beside the prison bars, causing them to clatter, but the commander was eerily quiet. 

They stood in silence for an eternity, the animosity an unbridgeable chasm. Janslic fidgeted anxiously in vast contrast to Cullen’s stoic demeanor. A contest of constitution, a war of willpower, one that neither man could afford to lose. 

“You are a fool, Janslic. I will take no joy in your death,” there was pity in Cullen’s voice now. Maker knew that the man wasn’t of his own mind.

Janslic unleashed an animalistic snarl and spun, launching himself at the prison bars, the sound like a tolling bell. “You will die never knowing the beauty of the song and my only regret is that I will not kill you myself!” Spittle flew from the man’s lips, his bloodshot eyes bulged forth, he clawed frantically at Cullen between the bars. “You will die!” He screeched, volume increasing, “You will all die!” It continued and his words rapidly devolved and soon he was only gnashing his teeth.

Cullen retreated, the other man’s insane display had infused him with unease. His gaze was fixed on the ground, counting the stones and his breathing. He no longer had any misgivings about the men’s future, Janslic would be an old chapter soon. Connolly stood at the end of the corridor making a pitiful attempt to not stare at his superior. The Templar stood at attention and waited for a command. 

"It will be closer to putting down a rabid dog rather than punishment for a treacherous man," Cullen stated to the air as he rubbed his temples.

"Aye. He rambled nonsense through the night. I questioned my own sanity more than once throughout the night," was Connolly's unabashed confession.

The response startled the Commander, who was completely unaware that he'd spoken aloud. He cleared his throat as he fumbled with the right response. "I must thank you again for you service. Very few could have been left with him overnight."

"It wasn't exactly an easy night. As I said before, I wanted to slit his throat." The Templar's brow was clouded. "That would have been too easy a death for the bastard, though."

“I’ll send down a recruit to relieve you,” he responded, purposely allowing the idea fall.

“I’m not so young that I’d do anything brash, Commander,” was the defensive reply. “Let the young ones train, I’ll watch the wretch until you’ve a fit punishment,” the old Templar chided. “Either he will rot in his cell or we end it, there is no rush, Serah.”

A pause. Connolly saw much more than he let on. “You’ll only have to endure him through the afternoon. He will hang.” The words came slowly and he felt the weight of each one roll over his tongue.

The sentence was met with a salute and a grin. “Commander.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be outside, it's nice outside. 
> 
> ...
> 
> Just one more chapter.


	6. Recant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. Hi, four months later. Let's get this ball rolling again. Please criticize everything creatively. 
> 
> ...
> 
> Maker preserve me.

After wandering the ramparts and mulling over how to best deal with the situation earlier that day, Cullen pushed it aside, hoping the young woman knew better than to spread gossip. He'd yet to notice the other recruits address him differently, so it seemed a safe assumption. The midday sun was hidden, the grey clouds moved swiftly, propelled by a stiff wind. He decided that instead of sequestering himself to his office, as much he sorely wished to, he moved to the war room to contemplate troop movement.

The main hall was decidedly emptier than usual. A small smattering of noble interlopers were scattered around the fringes, whispering, plotting, gossiping. Minor things, assuredly, since none made eyes at him. Except for one noble lady, a spinster sister of an arl in Fereldan. She had a mouth large enough to voice all her grievances, and in his case, all of her interest. 

A pudgy hand fluttered at him as their eyes met and he let out a sigh, unable to maintain the appearance of non-annoyance. Months, he had fought off her advances and his defenses were quickly falling. Smiling and nodding had given way to excuses and now all he had the ability to do was ignore the woman and quicken his pace to the war table.

“Oh! Ser Cullen?” came the call, shrill and aggravating. “Oh, please wait! Ser Cullen, I wish to speak with you!” He could hear the woman trip over herself, barging through other groups and bumping into tables.

He managed a quick glance over his shoulder, her eyes finding his immediately. Her broad smile revealed a toothy grin. “Commander, I have something absolutely wonderful to tell you!” She flourished the words with an waving handkerchief.

He slid through the door and out of the lady’s sight.

“Commander?” A soft voice, Josephine.

“Please handle her.”

“W-who?” 

Cullen didn’t answer, he was already rushing into the war room, the door locking behind him. With his ear pressed to the door, the conversation was only barely decipherable. The two women's cadences could not be more dissimilar; the ambassador's was guiding without being overpowering, Cullen's would-be suitor, however, was a kreen like that of a child. High pitched pleading that was followed by an even dissuasion most like the Inquisition’s Ambassador. Maybe some whimpering, gentle assurances meant to comfort, possibly a giggle, a cheerful farewell. A soft click signaled the abandonment of whatever courting/torture the lady had in store for him. Possibly, the Maker sought to ease at least one part of his day.

"I quite believe you owe me, Commander," Josephine whispered between the hefty planks.

He leaned heavily into the war table, the expansive map was now as familiar to him as the lake shore back home. A small bronze piece bearing the Eye of the Inquisition sat over the Wounded Coast. Inquisitor Gafford planned on scouring the graveled beach for any signs of Templar movement, spurred on by a rumor of red lyrium in the area. 

The Inquisitor made him uncomfortable. Cullen could not read the other man. Over ale, Dorian had recounted, extensively, the five days spent wandering the Hissing Wastes looking at old ruins and acquiring negligible knick knacks. Yet, no sign of anything that had to do with Corypheus. Nothing of Red Templars. Just boots full of sand and an increasingly irritated Cassandra. 

It had been clear that even their enemies did not want to explore the expansive sands. There had been no indication of a need the expend troops and tax the supply lines trying to maintain a foothold in the area. He felt his sanity slip trying to do the mental gymnastics required to make sense of wasting time, time they did not have, so that one man could sate his curiosity. 

His hands ached. Without notice, Cullen had gripped the edge of the table with such pressure that his knuckles had gone white. He flexed and drummed his fingers along the rough grain, sensation slowly flowing through them. Shifting focus to the Western Approach, Cullen scanned reports that indicated Venatori activity. A silver coin indicated the presence of the Tevinter cult.

“Hopefully, that will catch the Inquisitor’s attention and we can actually make some headway towards ending this,” he grumbled, a hand massaged his temples.

A soft, metallic whine indicated that he had a visitor. Gentle hands eased the heavy door back into the frame and closed with a barely audible click. “I’ve heard you wish to hang our prisoner?” Leliana leaned against the door, arms crossed and a slightly -mostly- sour look shadowed her fine features.

“What would you have me do instead?” The question was one he had asked himself with every decision. 

The Spymaster shifted her weight, closing the distance to the war table with silent steps. “I can have my people deal with Janslic. Quietly,” she mouthed the word in a way that made his hair stand on end. “A public hanging would only serve to drive people away from the Inquisition.” 

He shook his head. “Our people demand justice!” A balled fist struck the table. “They need to know that we are able to deal with these threats.” 

Their eyes met. Hers were a tempest, ready to sweep away anything before her. While, his sparked, resolute in his purpose. One moment seeped into the next. The maelstrom behind her green eyes subsided as she turned away her face. He let out a deep sigh, unaware that he had been holding his breath. A hand combed through his hair and rested at the back of his neck, the movement a natural reflex. 

Leliana pulled back the hood that kept her face in perpetual darkness. A soft smile eased her features and for a second she was brilliantly beautiful. Untouchable in a way that inspired awe. 

“This is your decision. They were your men and I respect that.” Her hand closed on his, a light squeeze and she left him.

Some hours later, as he retreated from the war room, the clearing of a throat meant to gain his attention came from behind a desk stacked high with missives.

“Yes, Josephine?”

A singsong voice seemed to originate from the massive stack of papers. “Leliana is correct on this matter,” was the paper’s flat reply. 

“I should let him die quietly.”

“No. He shouldn’t be allowed to die quietly.”

“What are you suggesting, then?” Confusion furrowed his brow.

The Inquisition’s Ambassador stood and cleared her throat. Her usually reserved countenance was replaced by something a tad more feral. “This Peter Janslic, he should die, but not before an audience of our people, our allies. It could sour potential alliances. The Inquisition would look like nothing more than rabid war mongers.”

Her words were greeted with silence. He struggled for the words. “Josephine, what are you asking of me?”

She rounded the desk and stood before him. Though she was a full head shorter, her words carried a great weight that made her loom above Cullen. “Nothing. I am not asking you to do anything at all. Let Leliana’s people deal with the man.”


End file.
